[Above] That's my sister. And it's not a wig. And yes, those noodles tasted good. Red rice noodles and Chicken 65 (a kind of Indian spice I got from India).

So I've been neglecting this space for a long time. I've been busy. As always.

I'm getting better, I'm recovering from the rash but now I have to think about what to wear besides my usual sleeveless tank and shorts attire. Most people are afraid of rash, so I heard. I think I lost count of the times I explained my condition and how it's noncontiguous to the people around me that I sound like a dermatologist now.

You should ask me about hives. I will tell you everything you didn't know.

In about two weeks' time I'll be leaving for the States. Here's when and where I'd be:

November
08 Los Angeles
14 Las Vegas
15 Grand Canyon
16 Arizona
19 Yosemite
21 San Francisco
25 Seattle

December
01 Ebensburg
08 New York
11 Home

I’ve been conversing with Gideon from Vox Veniae about church, communal living and downward mobility and it’s all good. So good. I am encouraged to know that another way really exist beyond a faint rumor or a passing thought. My route doesn’t take me anywhere near Austin, TX and I don’t know how that will work out logistically, but it will be more than great to spend some time and connect with the people there. How that will be, I don’t know but I have a 10 year visa, no? Who knows what will happen next year. Or tomorrow.

(I hear that I might be going to Nepal next year.)

Two nights ago my sister and I received aluminum balloons from some friends who wanted to celebrate our birthdays early. Personally, I prefer the ones filled with helium in the shape of a goldfish. I like them floating. We also caught some overly dramatic spoken word poetry and some subtle gems at Wayang Kata.

That was Ciplak with Fahmi Fadzil. They should’ve really done an encore because beer bottles are handy for more beer bottle slides. I told Aziz from Ciplak that it was good and I liked it. He asked if I popped some E.

1. I'm unwell. I have a rash and it's highly unlikely that it's due to an allergen. I'm taking some medication and they making me drowsy. And I can't even typing proper.

2. I took most of the week off and it was necessary.

3. I went back to work for a day and it was silly.

4. I'm reading Brian McLaren's The Secret Message of Jesus when I'm conscious and not drowsy.

5. I cooked. My domesticated friend laughed when I told her I'm cooking soba noodles. She thinks the only thing I can make is instant cup noodles. Anyway, I cooked soba noodles with olive oil, black olives, romaine lettuce, black mushrooms and a dash of balsamic vinegar. Next I will try squid ink noodles, black olives, crushed black pepper, beef and black mushrooms. Black is my favorite color.

6. I tried to be healthy. Made a drink from watermelon chunks, ice, blackcurrant juice, lemon juice and chopped cilantro.

7. I'm applying steroid cream.

8. I wanted to take photos of the rash, but that would be gross.

9. I had a haircut and I prefer odd numbers.

It’s 22:25 and I’m still at the office. My colleague put on some music from the gramophone era. Creaky vinyl and black and white film. I haven’t had my dinner and my eyes hurt. I am stressed, can’t you tell? My week had been crazy. If deadlines were living creatures, they’d be monsters that stick close to you with their reptilian fingers wrapped around your arm. They’d have smelly breath too... an onslaught of fish markets, onion and garlic.

Whenever I get stressed, I don’t think a lot—this I have to admit. My brain shuts off partially to an auto-pilot mode. Don’t talk about feelings and emotions with me during this time because it will come out constipated and diced. I will frustrate myself and you.

However, I do enjoy the times when I don’t have to think a lot. Little activities and gestures that remind me how it’s ok, that things will be fine and good. Here are some of the many:

Grass and bare feet. Naked stars and being alone.
When I was younger, my sister and I would lie on our beds and stare up at the dark ceiling. We’d create stories with characters and a plot. She’d come up with a scene and I will continue, not unlike storytelling ping-pong. Sometimes I got so carried away I cried for the characters like in a movie. But in between stories I’d close my eyes and imagine walking in the universe and wondering if I’d reach the edge of it. I usually picture myself scratching at nothing, only finding more to the universe but never the end of it.





Underwater handstands.
Because it messes me up. Everything is upside down, downside up. I can’t hold it for long so it usually ends up being an underwater somersault. I’m not a pro. Yet.

Breakfast.
Wholegrain bread, butter (loads), ground black pepper, ham/bacon, mustard, zucchini slices, salsa/hot sauce (chunky)/ketchup, black olives and cheese. Let me know if I missed out anything. No, I don’t like raw onions.




I met a mute old lady in the alley behind my office today. She had huge glasses, pink pajamas-looking two-piece and a packet of cat food. We couldn’t communicate fluently and she had her own sign language system. Male = two fingers drawing a moustache on her face. Female = both hands touching her ears. And ever since my grandma passed away last year, I’ve had this inkling to “adopt” every old person... or rather, have them adopt me.

Alright, I should leave the office soon. Have better days ahead.

She’s so precious. The lines on her face say so much. When I first met her, she looked so sad. Her children left her alone and her husband, a man too old to be working odd hours, found it hard to find money to support the two of them. Traveling to work would easily finish up a day’s wage. Some days they go without food.

Her knees are weak and her eyes don’t lie. They tear easily and the skin around them folds and creases when she laughs and smiles. She speaks about abandonment and loneliness but also of hope and love. When she doesn’t have enough to eat, Ramya, her 19-year old neighbor would share her food. We sat on the floor of Ramya’s little home that afternoon. We had tiny orange biscuits and sweet tea in metal cups.

We talked about family, Ramya’s love for her husband and about being disowned and adopted at the same time. They didn’t talk about community or service, but they were living it. I found this to be true in the tsunami orphanage too. India was filled with paradoxes. The lonely weren’t alone. The poor were rich. The meek had what no one can steal and money can’t buy. The abandoned had homes in human hearts and a shelter. The orphans were adopted into a bigger family. Frail beings with the divine in them.

I still have the luggage tag tied to my messenger bag. I can be stubborn and sentimental like that, but I know I should move on. Life is more than a destination. If I would put myself aside, I’m sure I’d find scandalous paradoxes here or anywhere.

Where I end, He begins.

I wish I knew where to begin.

India was amazing. I may have had the best week of my life thus far. I touched down at 6am, finished unpacking my bags at 8am and slept till 6pm. The moon, lightning bolts, thunderclouds and stars were too distracting for me to sleep on the plane and I was uncomfortable about coming back.

After the tsunami, families were displaced and moved into government funded squatters, children were orphaned, husbands and wives widowed. From afar, the squatters looked neat with nicely painted walls but as you walk into the village you see and smell bad irrigation and sewage. Running water was not as common as cow dung. There were puddles of mud, feces and urine in front or next to the homes where the children took their toys into and made into bathtubs.

The people here walked around with a toothbrush in their mouths. I felt at home.

We entered the homes of many and listened to their stories. So many were desperate and hungry for goodness and grace to happen, it’s hard to not hold them and cry with them. Although I had a translator with me most of the time, I really sensed a lack of unlikeness. We do not share the same culture and language but we were able to laugh and cry together... pain, loneliness, love and joy are universal experiences that don’t discriminate against race, nationality and religion.

I’ve met some of the most amazing people as well. People who’d walk into an ankle deep sewage puddle to greet a woman on the other side, people who risked everything to follow Jesus, people who are able to love orphans as their own flesh and blood, people who’d pray hard for electricity and people who gave up marriage to serve the underprivileged. What they experience daily I was allowed to experience in a week. I couldn’t have asked for anything better.

My mind was constantly being renewed. There were times (and this happened very often) when a prayer was not as powerful as a hug or embrace. When you begin to understand why Jesus touched the leper when He could have simply said a word for the man to be healed. When the skin is unfamiliar to touch, a touch is what it needs. When the hand is empty, another hand needs to fill it. When words are unnecessary.

It’s true that there is no such thing as a godforsaken place, only a church forsaken place. So God was already there and all we did was show up.

Here’s a glimpse of my week.

This was a common flower found by the road and pathways. I asked our guide what kind of flower this was and he said it is used as a female infanticide. It contains a sticky sap that is mixed into the milk for the baby. It’s heartbreaking to see how something so beautiful can be so lethal. As soon as he told me that, we passed a bunch of young boys hanging around a sweatshop.

At the 2nd longest beach in the world. There were lovers under the scorching afternoon sun, wooden carousels and ferris wheels, fishermen and extremely good seafood.

Hi. Thank you for reading and keeping up with me. Thank you all for the generous words and emails. It’s been surprising and humbling to know how people from across the world could connect through the interweb. And to the lurkers, thank you as well.

I’m leaving for India in a few hours time. Hello airplane breakfast in neat little boxes. I was given a mini crash course on Tamil last night and I hope to embarrass myself with silly hand gestures and lousy intonations.

I will see you in a week, hopefully with stories to share and a new understanding.

Americans can get pretty good at being paranoid if they wanted to. Generally.

I got my visa done last week and it wasn’t the most pleasant experience. Passing through a metal detector at the guardhouse, I had to remove my belt and empty my bag of all my electronic devices—iPod, headphones, handphone, USB cable, and car keys. After this hurdle, I still could not put on my belt because there was another metal detector before entering the building.

Obviously the B-word is more deadly and foul than the F-word.

Then I was in the waiting room semi waiting for my number and semi watching and gasping at the “video” on proper embassy conduct and procedures. Very PowerPoint savvy. Pretty much how I’d react to a horror film. (I know, I hate being a graphic designer sometimes.)

When there is nothing much to do—the only magazine available is Expatriate and you’d have to do a 360˚ to watch the weather on CNN—the best thing to do is to be civilized and eavesdrop.

There was an old woman who could not speak a word of English and wanted to go to the States to stay with her friend’s daughter who was getting married and whose address she could not produce. They denied her a visa. There was also this kid who wanted to go to Michigan to study and live with his uncle. He just graduated from high school and did not have an acceptance letter. The interviewer suspected that he’d be working there instead, so she denied him. Then there was another kid who was almost close to tears, begging the interviewer to approve him so that he’d get a chance at better education. They denied him too.

I felt really bad for them.

Then it was my turn. The lady told me my photo (which I took a few days prior to the interview) was not recent because I look the same there as in my passport photo (which I took 2 years ago). I think she expected me to grow a full beard, dye it red and pleat it within two years. And because she was so amazing, I spent extra RM40 on new photos. This time I didn’t smile. I went back to the embassy again and another lady looked at my photos.

“So what was wrong with your previous photo?”

“I have no idea.”

“I think your first photo works just fine.”

“Thanks.”

But they used my non-smiling photo anyway. Grrrrrr.

She left me annoyed and pissed. So pissed. I started to think about how everyday they have a certain reject quota to fulfill. I also started to imagine about how she was sadistic and would laugh about this over coffee in the pantry. And then coffee will squirt out her nose. But I caught myself. I couldn’t bring myself to forgive her for not making sense, for making me rush for a photo (ugly) and waste RM40 on it.

But I was reminded of how I should think of what is true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious—the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse—even when I can’t see it. Ok, so she had really nice glasses. Very chic, Tina Fey style. Then I saw her as a mother, a loving mother with her own children. They’re happy. She’s a wife and a best friend to her husband. They’re in love. She’s a person and she’s really beautiful.

There’s something holy about the space between her eyelids and the gap between her teeth. I become less human when I don’t forgive, as though a part of me dies when I withhold love. Unforgiveness is as corrosive as gastric juices in an empty stomach. It eats you up from the inside out. Unnecessary.

Finally, they gave me a 10-year visa and I’m not complaining.

I need to work on trembling at a love bigger than my own.

This is the month of flags, fireworks and parades. The intern in the office risked his life to hang the Malaysian flag over our balcony while I stood inside looking out at him from the window hoping he’d make it, partly worried for him and partly worried for my lack of patriotism.

In school, we learned about how the British colonized the land. Some changes were good but unfortunately for us, they also brought in their worst invention—the roundabout.

Soon Malaysia will be 50 years-old and it’s about time for a life-altering midlife crisis, I think. I’m a bit cynical about the country so I will stop talking about what stinks. I have friends who left the country, friends who want to come back, friends who want to leave and friends who love it here. As for me, I’m drifting between wanting to leave and loving it here.

I can’t say much for our government, but here is a list of things I’m thankful for/love about Malaysia:
. Penang
. stray animals
. Ramly Burgers
. secluded islands
. Malay subtitles for Chinese dramas on TV
. rain
. 24-hour food stalls
. night markets
. mamaks
. tropical rainforests
. caves and rivers
. diversity
. languages
. Manglish (because we can)
. Ramly Burgers
. Furniture
. random power cuts (good excuse to play pictionary and charades in the office)
. my friends and family

(You don’t want to know how long it took me to compile that list. Seriously.)

Yes, I also put up some cheesy bird photos for your enjoyment. Moving on.

A few days ago I received a Coney Franks box filled with old newspapers and a Polaroid camera from my professional handsurfing friend (I owe you). Possibly one of the best gifts ever and it’s not even my birthday. I’m very, very stoked.

!!!

Hello August. You found me sleeping late again, waking up to crusty eyes and a stubborn desire to pull the sheets over again. You found me with breakfast pastry crumbs between my feet. Between life and death, you found me.

You hold much for me. June and January are distant now and I’m glad for us. Yet there were times I wished you were October, November or December. I was wondering last night if you'd be so great I could burst. But I know you and I won't last. In due time, September will pick all my broken pieces together, lay me out on the grass and assemble me once again.

So what are you going to be about? Chances are, chances being from anything to everything, we would be having a lot of fun. Yes, me and you.

August, we will live and love for nothing. Yes, for nothing.

Love,
Rachel

P/S: India.

[I’ve been shooting/uploading a few dead, dirty and ordinary things from the back alleys as of late. Dried grass, wild flowers, cracks, rubbish, dew, stinky birds and some discarded has-beens interest me. I don’t know how long this will last, but I like ordinary quite a lot.]

Link for the week: Soundtransit. Now you can travel with sound. This is home.

It’s been raining consistently this week and everything about rain gets me in the sweetest mood. The sound, scent, wind, splatter, breeze, cold and random drizzles. If the scent of rain could be captured, I’d wear it as a perfume.

A random stranger sheltered me with his umbrella across the street once. And watching a movie in an open field under the rain is an experience worth repeating. A rain-soaked dog might not smell like waffles in the morning but it sure as heck is comforting to massage its ears as your lap pillows its head. There’s something about the rain that brings people together, just like beaches and lakes.

So here I am—indoors—blogging about the awesomeness of rain because my sister canceled out on me and our little date to the outdoor cinema because she just got her wisdom tooth removed, feels drowsy with the painkillers and it’s raining. Painkillers, I hate you (sometimes). Anyway, I was looking through my little book collection and found a mini book of questions. Some questions were silly silly and others were interestingly silly. Here are some:

Which would be better: taking a cross-country train ride or a one-week trip to Disneyland?
A cross-country train ride, of course.

Which would be worse: being an impatient person or an inconsiderate person?
The latter. You can be impatient and keep quiet about it or be inconsiderate and lash it out on others… which reminds me, I was at Borders this morning and was contemplating purchasing Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs by Chuck Klosterman when a really loud and obnoxious man in the Mind, Body and Soul section broadcasted his phone conversation about funerals, being open-minded, wills, cremation or burial, taboos and casket packages. He was inconsiderate and I was impatient with my indecisiveness so I walked off.

Which would be better: living a simple life or having no worries?
Trick question.

Which would be worse: having no sense of humor or no common sense?
Having no sense of humor. If no one laughs with you, at least you could laugh at yourself. Besides, common sense might not be as common as you think.

Which would be better: working with wood or working with clay?
Jesus or Ghost. Jesus. Ghost. Jesus. Ghost. Yes, clay. I like Jesus the carpenter but I hate splinters.

Which would be worse: watching an execution or a fatal car accident?
Sick, sick question.

And, I’ve learned a few things this week.

Fiction: Guinness goes well with everything.
Fact: Guinness does not go well with mangosteens. Not at all.

Fiction: God makes/allows certain things in life for a reason.
Fact: Wisdom teeth and appendix.

That is all.

She is broken. Sometimes selfish. Usually misunderstood. Maybe bipolar. Maybe antisocial. Loving. Busy. Tired and in need of some rest. Prone to lie. Believes in confession. Understands adultery. Famous and infamous. Messy. Alive. Loose. Frightened and fragile. Usually trembling. Addicted. Romantic. Her knees, bent. Her arms, folded. Starving. Laughing. Occasionally overfed. Dirty. Self-righteous. Desperate and longing. Tender. Reaching. Bedraggled. Rich but poor. Thirsty. Good. In pain. Brokenhearted. Knows murder. Backstabbed. Kicks and screams. Misrepresented. Patient. Loved. Foolish. Undeserving. Under-served. Beautiful. Human. To die for.

She is most likely one of us. I don’t know if I like her, but I’m learning to love her.

Surely God has a sense of humor to love people.

I'm still talking to my difficult friend. And I still get tired out. She talks about how one mistake can mess up one's life and how it's the end of the world and I will tell her that it's not the end of the world. And she will talk about her mistakes again.

And I want to take a swim.

It's quieter there and even if I cry it won't be so noticeable. Underwater, things are quiet and when I need to catch my breath, I can float up to rest and surrender to the mass below me.

I probably sound like a desperate escapist, but if you knew me, you'd (probably) drive me to the nearest lake/river/beach/swimming pool pronto. I will show you how I do a somersault underwater and maybe we'd try to sing too. Or skip that and pass me the Wii.

I was talking to one of my closest friends' dad the other night. He speaks rather slowly and when he cracks a joke, he will tell it with a straight face, you'd wonder if he was joking at all. And then he will pause and smile. He gave me his two cents (and more) about handsome men. He said that there are two kinds of guys: 1.) those who are physically handsome and 2.) those who are handsome because of who they are and what they do/don't do. He said I should stick with the latter. He's wise and I couldn't agree more.

He then went on to dispense advice on marriage and love like I was going to elope the next morning. (Eloping would have been fun, but it didn't happen the next morning.)

So it’s true. I’m finally going to India in a month’s time. Thinking about it puts a smile on my face. Indian food. Curries. Bread (mmmm...). Dirt. Mud. Red earth. Cows. Banana leaves. Monkeys (I don’t like them). Bicycles. New faces. Unheard-of traffic rules. One week is too short.

And... here’s my Please Let It Not Be Too Cold In America tour in November (one month of unpaid leave. Yay.). I haven’t bought my plane ticket to the States yet but this morning I bought a ticket to the gods aren’t angry tour (L.A., November 13). I don’t know when I will reach or if there will be plane tickets on the dates I want. I hate planning ahead of time so I’m just going stick to what works: pray and trust.

This weekend: football match at the stadium with the kids. I couldn't be in a better place than here right now.

I've read somewhere about how salt of the earth refers to salt added into the manure (fuel) to enable the fire to last longer. Now I'm beginning to see a glimpse of what He meant. You get rubbed in all the wrong places, you get in with the seemingly undesirable. It stinks and it usually hurts.

I'm tired.

For the past week I have been listening to someone so adamant against love, hope and change, it's draining. I also read that sometimes you live to change the world and sometimes you have to live to keep the world from changing you.

Some things are simply beyond me and my heart is allowed to ache and break. So I'm beginning to see the cracks. Common sense tells me to seal up the cracks with putty or superglue, but these cracks are good. Water leaks from a crack, light breaks into darkness and grass pierces concrete.

As cracks are good here, salt is good for the dung. Even when they don't know what gives the fire its flame, meals get cooked, people are fed and kept warm.

Today I left the office early and went for a walk with my camera. I didn’t have to walk for long, but walks are good when you have nowhere particular to go and no appointment waiting.

So I spotted an old couple with their beat-up VW Beetle. They looked sweet together... he was wearing one of the thickest black rimmed glasses I have ever seen and her nails were stained with chipped pink polish. Way fashionable for their age. She told me in a hush voice of how her husband absent-mindedly left the headlights on and now their battery is dead flat.

“He and that damned car.”

Her husband was busying himself with a spanner, trying to get the battery out from the bottom of the back seat like it weighed an ocean. I know nuts about cars, but gave the thing a go anyway. It’s not everyday that I get myself greased.

Then she asked, “What is your religion?” A little taken aback, I told her that I believed in Jesus.

“No wonder. I guessed it... Jesus’ followers like helping people.”

I felt my perspective shifted and put into place like tectonic plates from a graphical diagram in the National Geographic, sending little quivers and quakes down my spine but expressed outwardly in goose bumps and a smile. Unexpectedly humbling. We went on to talk about faith and her weekend date with her girlfriends.

The heavily salt-crusted battery was soon dislodged and we waved goodbye. I watched them as they walked home together with the car battery in a trolley. Cutest couple ever.

How lost, how amazed, how miraculous we are.

Yes, I'm learning to pause.

There are two things I've been telling myself: breathe and love. Or rather, those were two things I've been reminded of these few days/weeks/months.

The children's home painting project was a disaster in every logical sense. I've heard more complaints than anything else. Some volunteers were complaining about how boring scrapping paint can get while some complained about the music from the radio. Others complained about being there.

(Teenagers.)

My friend tells me I have to filter. He's right. There's this giant invisible sieve hanging over me, reminding me to breathe and love.

There are also gems to be held from the filtering. Some pedophobic guys started to volunteer and my 13-year old brother decided to give away his comics to the kids because comics are/were important to him and the kids have only one comic book in their library.

So in the illogical sense, the home painting project was a success. I liked how we were doing it together, mothers, husbands, sons, daughters, brothers and sisters. Families don't always have it perfect, and that was what we were: family. Unknown to us at that time, we were following and being the hands and feet of the One who came down... literally covered in (His) dust and debris.

On another note, I received my credit card bill today and it’s one of the nicest things this week.

Total amount spent: $0

Love.

I had a good lunch with a friend yesterday. And this happens pretty regularly, come to think about it. We’d go for long lunches and talk, laugh, sigh, sometimes tear a little and eat and drink. A part of me lives for lunches like these.

We were talking about yesterday, who we were five years ago and what we will be five years in the future. I realized that I’m terribly shortsighted. I don’t quite remember much about the things I did and said five years ago. I’m very much the same person, but I think my outlooks changed. Yet the past seem like a blur… dusty even. The future on the other hand, is out of reach.

So we were there together. She was digging into her spaghetti and I was twirling my noodles. We exist now. Today we have each other. Today we live.

Today is all there is.

Today is now.

She suggested we write down our current state. She didn’t really explain why we should do that, but I think we both desire to remember who we were today and choose to be conscious of today.

So here goes.

Today I am:
◦ uncertain
◦ content
◦ yet a little bored
◦ eager
◦ hopeful
◦ smiling
◦ trusting
◦ holding on
◦ remaining
◦ a little sad
◦ a little happy
◦ tired
◦ ♥
◦ wanting to swim in a natural body of water
◦ overdosed on tea
◦ getting rid of ifs in my vocabulary

It’s been raining rather consistently lately and it’s just bliss. A stranger walked me across the street with his umbrella and new carps were added into the mini fish pool outside my house.

On the weekend I stumbled upon a second-hand book sale at the mall. I don’t like the mall in general (terrible artificial lighting, unnecessary spending and the crowd), but it’s kind of inevitable. I didn’t expect to buy anything, but I did. I left the mall with four second-hand books. I can be quite nerdy.

Here are my purchases:

Freedom’s Children: Young Civil Rights Activists Tell Their Own Stories
By Ellen Levine, RM3.00
This is a collection of true stories of 30 African-Americans who were children or teenagers when they fought segregation and discrimination in the South from the 50s – 60s. This book feels like a Ziploc bag on the verge of exploding its contents. If only all books can be so blatantly simple yet powerful. One of my favorite stories in this book (so far) tells of a black woman serving a homeless white man some food. And from that story, I found one of my favorite lines: “People are people, even though they are not always good people.”

Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith
Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year
Both by Anne Lamott, RM12.27
I’m currently reading Plan B and I couldn’t find Traveling Mercies at Borders and I love her writing. These two books are definitely a steal. I love the way she describes the unseen... the dust and wind and the holy. And how laughter is carbonated holiness.

Can You See Me? Images of Atlanta's Homeless
With introduction by Lee Walburn, RM5.00
Above is one of my favorite photos in this book. It’s by Louie Favorite (an awesome name, I reckon). The other photo of the two old men is by Billy Howard. Below are some of my favorite quotes from this book:

What is it that keeps the human spirit alive in a body that is always too hot or too cold, a stomach that is always hungry, and a hand that clutches a bottle always too empty?

What happens when they long for sex and reach to touch skin that is like peeling paint and smell the breath of decaying food and twice-tasted whiskey?

Do they fantasize about perfume and fancy colognes?

Or do they just want to go home?

+

I’ve been living under this bridge four years now. Every year it starts getting cold, y’all come around with your cameras. You take lots of pictures. And nothing ever changes.

During my short stint in Singapore a year ago, I lived with an apostate of Islam. She was disowned by her family in Malaysia and could no longer return to her homeland. But she lives freely today. And the whole Lina Joy case got me thinking about freedom again. They could break our bones and change our names, but they cannot steal our hearts. Freedom is more than living free from oppression. Freedom is to choose life when everything around you dies. And to choose to love despite having every reason to hate.

Before I left Singapore, she gave me five smooth stones she collected from Israel. It’s good to remember these things. It makes me want to... um, declare independence.

On another note, for the past few weeks I have heard far too many wedding ideas for one person to hear. A good friend of mine is planning her wedding and we find our conversations veering toward flowers, the color pink, door gifts, cakes/no cake/cupcakes, deco, bubbles, photography, more pink, invites, venue, honeymoon, children and all things pink/horrifying/beautiful/however you see it.

And I can only deal with this much pink.

Apparently, he hasn’t officially proposed yet. But she’s waiting. If you have no idea where to begin, The Postal Service’s ‘Brand New Colony’ is a great proposing song. I think.

Lately, I have the fascination with the word, 'good.' I don't know if there's another word to really capture the meaning of 'good.' But we say she looks good. That tastes good. He's got a good sense of humor. It was a good film. It smells good. We feel good. It was good catching up with you. A good man is hard to find.

Good is so fluid… yet we somehow know when something or someone is good.

Whether adjective or noun, you can either feel ‘good’ in your hands or call it a mystery. I like the idea of both. Yesterday I met some people who are living the kind of life that I could only call good. The quality of life they live defies the norms of a quality life. What they have or don’t have is not the good, but what they do and how they live with what they have or don’t have. I know many people who live this way and they make me want to spend more time with them. Something about them draws me in and causes my heart to race a little.

Some of them do not have a monthly wage. Most live by faith that God will provide for their next grocery purchase. A friend has only RM30 in savings. A married couple doesn’t know where their money comes from, but it always shows up whenever it is needed. A boy is adopted. A father cries in the bathroom because his son is safe. A husband makes a mistake and his wife forgives and loves him more.

On Saturday I met a 22-year old girl and her third baby. I also met her mom and her sixth child. Her children live in shelters. Not ideal. But I saw that her children are her good. And her children are good. This is good.

I love that good does not mean perfect.

‘Good ending’ makes no sense and is an oxymoron because good doesn’t have an end and it grows. The best movies and books are open-ended. Good is in us and in the world we come in contact with. Me, you, them, fish, horses, worms, pandas, frogs, valleys, mountains, sushi, trees, moss, rocks, water... all very good. I’ve come to know that this is true.

So I got my test photos developed and the camera is dandy. I finally peeled off the price tag. It’s a keeper.

I was just pondering about this thing that I’m doing—the just-in-case habit. Keep the price tag on, just in case you find out the camera is messed up. Take this along, just in case it rains. Keep this, you might need it one day. Write it down. Take a photo. Record it. Maybe I just desperately want to remember things and have the memories with me forever.

I’m a memory hoarder. Maybe.

Yet there are some areas in my life where the just-in-case habit doesn’t apply. My car has insurance that someone else is paying and I don’t have insurance because I can’t afford it. My health “is not covered” and they say anything can happen. I’d never know.

I don’t want to know.

There are things I can never take with me and there would be things that will follow me. Some things I carry unconsciously. Some things I leave behind by choice.

A few minutes ago I let my dog out to pee and caught the sky exploding in streaks of lightning. It was quiet and beautiful. White-yellow lightning echoed orange in the clouds. And I didn’t have my camera with me. Strangely, it felt good. I don’t want to photograph something out of the fear of losing it. It was me, my dog and the sky. I was in the company of greatness.

My dog, being blind and slightly schizophrenic (understatement), was darting here and there but it was a good moment. We have nothing to remember it by, but somehow, it felt “enough.” We have enough, we don’t need more.

I know, my scanner caught some dirty lately. But I'm in no rush to clean it yet.